


Blemished

by Naemi



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe: Prostitution, Alternate Universe: Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Dark fic, Disturbing, M/M, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Snuff, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's got to do it right. He's got to do justice to the beauty within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blemished

**Author's Note:**

> **Please read and heed the full list of warnings at the end if you're faint-hearted!**
> 
> **Setting:** Alternate Universe: Prostitution; Alternate Universe: Serial Killers  
> 

 

Casey loves it when Zeke is on his hands and knees, head lowered to the mattress and ass in the air. He loves the smooth play of muscles as Zeke tries to keep himself steady and how the sweat pearls from his nape and beads his flanks when he's fucked just right. Every shiver running through his body, every breathless or stifled moan, every flutter of lashes is worth memorizing, and sometimes Casey actually takes pictures to stash away.

The opportunity to watch Zeke like that is rare, for most johns don't give a fuck; all they have in mind is getting off quickly so they can return to their loving families or demanding jobs, as if nothing ever happened.

Too damned bad that none of those who end up in their apartment ever go far.

~ ~ ~

The street lights cast an unreal shine on Zeke, almost like a faded halo. The idea makes Casey snicker. He watches from a safe distance, well hidden in the dark. Rain and wind make for slow business, as if the average john takes them for a sign of apocalypse and is afraid to risk his mortal soul on such a night. Casey snickers again. Zeke doesn't like him being so melodramatic. Not that Zeke's opinion matters much, but life is much easier when he's happy, so Casey keeps his thoughts to himself most of the time.

Zeke's had one john tonight, but the man didn't suit Casey's taste and got away with what he paid for.

As the clock ticks towards dawn, Casey's anticipation turns into anxiety. When a white Honda pulls over after what seems like forever, he's tempted to give Zeke the signal, regardless of the man's suitability. His finger hovers over the call button for ten long seconds before he slips the phone back into his pocket. No matter how strong the urge is, he can't invite just _anyone_ home. That would be unethical. (Zeke would laugh and say something about Casey just favoring the handsome, but that isn't true. Not exactly, anyway. Beauty, after all, lies in the eye of the beholder.)

Casey watches the Honda's taillights disappear, and like always, fear that Zeke might miss the perfect guy while another is thrusting into him, kicks in. But he isn't gone for long—probably just a blowjob—and nothing moves on the street.

Most of the other boys called it a night hours ago.

They won't.

~ ~ ~

Casey braces himself against the wall with one hand, forehead resting against the blank plaster while he copies the john's rhythm with his other hand wrapped around his cock. Zeke isn't on all fours, but his back, legs splayed out wide, eyes covered with his right forearm. The john grunts and Zeke utters little moans that Casey knows are perfectly fake. They turn him on, nonetheless.

The angle isn't quite right, doesn't reveal all the action, but Zeke had no chance of positioning himself to Casey's satisfaction; the john was quick to stick his cock in, and forbade Zeke to move, disappointed about the boy's refusal to be restrained. At least, he didn't force him into submission. Not that it would change much; they encountered those before, and frankly, it doesn't hurt if Zeke gets a little bruised. After all, it always makes him more enthusiastic about the after-show.

Casey comes silently. When he catches his breath, he wipes his hand on the wall, leaving a fleeting mark of excitement. After a last glimpse through the peephole assures him that the action isn't over yet, he sneaks into the room.

~ ~ ~

Something isn't right with this one. He bleeds out too fast, drifts in and out of consciousness without Casey being able to control it. It's frustrating when they slip away before he can finish his work.

Zeke watches from the other side of the room. The bright LEDs don't flatter him; they accentuate his flaws, highlight a face that's seen enough pain and grief for a lifetime. He smokes in silence, but he doesn't need to speak for Casey to know exactly what he wants to say: _let go._

Casey shakes his head. This man belongs to his collection: porcelain skin and dark eyes half hidden underneath even darker curls. They never found one quite like him before, and he can't waste the chance. But he works quickly, just in case, doesn't want to risk the man dying imperfect; he owes him that much.

Scalpel and needle, hammer and saw, thread and quill seem to be flying in and out of Casey's hands, dancing over smooth skin and exposed tissue. He's got to do it right. He's got to do justice to the beauty within.

When he's done, he sits back on the man's legs and squints his eyes, scans for flaws. There are none.

“Come here, baby.”

Zeke walks up behind him, his bare feet making little thuds on the concrete floor. Casey leans against him, rests the back of his head against his collarbone and explains the patterns—splatters and lines, dents and holes, cuts and stitches—while Zeke strokes him until his cum mixes with blood and bone fragments.

~ ~ ~

“You said he's perfect. You said he completes your collection.”

“I was mistaken.” Casey's voice is high-pitched. He paces the floor, anxious, irritated; his self-control dwindles by the second. “He was flawed. He didn't—” Casey looks up at Zeke, eyes wide and wild, “—live through the final touches. I can't keep a worthless exhibit. You have to get me a new one.”

“I can't. I can't do this anymore.”

The look on Casey's face turns from upset to bewildered. “Baby, please. You have to. You can't let me down. Not now.”

“I'm sorry.” Zeke averts his eyes. “I love you, Case. More than words can say. But I can't take any more of this. I'm done.” He turns away slowly, hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders sagged, but he doesn't stop, doesn't look back, and barely flinches when Casey yells after him:

“You can't leave me. You hear me, Zeke? You're mine. You can never leave me.”

~ ~ ~

The street lights cast an unreal shine on the boys, almost like faded halos. Casey hates being out here alone, but he can't help it. Unlike Zeke, he isn't a quitter. Unlike Zeke, he has a vision. And it really doesn't matter much who he invites, john or hooker, as long as the rest of the protocol is followed.

There's been this boy out here with whom Zeke was somewhat friendly, and Casey figures it's easier to dish him a believable lie than to talk a complete stranger into heavy kink.

He's mistaken. Again. When the boy—Brad or Brody, or something—realizes what he's really supposed to do, he tries to run. Casey is faster, knocks him out with the bedside lamp. Brody—or Brad—crashes down. He's dead before he hits the floor; the force was enough to bash his head in.

Casey does a double-take from the clothed body at his feet to the naked body tied to the bedposts. “That was an accident,” he says almost apologetic.

Zeke only whimpers in response.

“It was an accident. You know that, right, baby? I'm not a killer.”

“You are,” Zeke forces out, barely audible. “Murderer.”

It shouldn't be possible to talk through the blood and the smashed teeth, but apparently Casey hasn't made his point clear enough just yet.

By the end of the night, Casey made sure Zeke will never upset him again. In fact, he never pleased him more than now. The spiral patterns on his body are intricate, delicate, almost like calligraphy, and unlike any art Casey has ever produced. Zeke's chocolate eyes are wide open. Tears and blood caught in his long lashes through the procedure and dried on his face where they pearled down.

He's perfect. He's the only truly acceptable exhibit in all of Casey's collection. The only one he'll keep by his side forever.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Full list of warnings:**  
>  _dark fic, disturbing; prostitution, voyeurism,_ brief mentions of _masturbation, hand jobs_ and _cum play; serial killers, psychopath!Casey, violence, blood_ and _implied blood play,_ some _gore; body modification, cutting and mutilation as a psychopath's art. Implied/off-stage non-con_ and _necrophilia. Major character death._
> 
> Written for the **Solicited Love Fest**. I'm not sure that this meets the spirit of this fest, but eeyore9990 said that it's good as long as it has prostitution at all, so I hope for the best. Eep.
> 
> Please note that I'm not necessarily explicit about all of the evil things that I tagged/warned for. However, **consider yourselves thoroughly warned** , okay? ;-)
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful Moit, who also made sure that all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> _Feedback is love._   
> 


End file.
